I recently tried to read a critically acclaimed, multi-award nominated novel by the latest wiz kid in science fiction. The operative word being “tried.” Twice, in fact. I just couldn’t get past eighty pages either time. It made me wonder if maybe I’m just too out of touch with what’s happening in the genre, that being middle-aged and a long time away from my dream has left me bereft of the edge needed to play in that field. The other thought that occurred to me is maybe it really is bullshit, and it comes down to who is putting on who.

It’s not that the book wasn’t beautifully written. The words were put together well, the descriptions vivid and evocative. I just couldn’t get emotionally invested in it. There was nothing there that reached out and grabbed me and made me keep reading. The setting wasn’t anyplace I could…